


The Vagaries of Desire

by eratospen



Series: Of Desire [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Belly Kink, M/M, Past Anders/Karl - Freeform, Weight Gain, past Anders/Nate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-02-26 01:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13225089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratospen/pseuds/eratospen
Summary: For a kink meme prompt asking for the reversal of the "Justice makes Anders waste away" trope, featuring an FA Hawke and unintentionally (and for some time, unaware) gainer Anders.Warning: This is a Dragon Age male weight gain / belly kink story. If that doesn't sound like your thing...it probably isn't.





	1. Chapter 1

He’d always been long and lean and gloriously lithe—and vain as an Orlesian tart about his figure.

“What do you think, Karl?” Anders teased, stretching across the rumpled bed. He arched his back, letting his stomach go concave and the line of his ribs become pronounced, skin stretching milk-and-cream over bone. He knew if he tilted his head _just so_ , the line of his throat went taut, beautiful. If he let his hair fall _just right_ , a brush of gold teased at the high ridge of his collarbone.

He was all fire and daring and slim-hipped boyish _heat_ , and Karl never could keep himself from looking up from his latest book to watch with hungry eyes.

Especially when Anders slowly dragged a hand down his own lithe chest, fingertips toying pink nipples into tight peaks. He wet his lips, fluttering the golden fan of his lashes. _Got you_ , he thought, feeling wanted and wicked and comfortable in the beauty of youth. “Well? Do you think I could be a desire demon?”

“I think you could be something,” Karl growled, closing that damn book with a thud. Anders simply arched harder, higher, graceful as a dancer as his old lover caught him about the skinny waist and dragged him up—miles of pale skin brushing dark, trim ankles locking around Karl’s waist as Anders laughed into a biting kiss. Karl’s breath was hot against his mouth as he muttered, “And I’m almost convinced it’s nothing good.”


	2. Chapter 2

 “Oops,” Anders said, conveniently losing hold of the supple leather belt.

It fell about his feet, coiled like a self-satisfied snake as the already daringly revealing Tevinter robe went fluttering down—baring his lean body to the firelight.

The Warden barely flickered a glance in his direction. Nate coughed and sputtered and very deliberately looked _away_ , ears going a bright cherry red. Oghren belched.

Justice leaned forward, the flames doing eerie things to his death’s skull. “You did that on purpose,” he said.

Anders hummed a response, waiting patiently for Nate to cast him a surreptitious glance. The moment those hot eyes were on him, he leaned down to pick up his robe, curving one leg to make the most out of what—even had had to admit—was a flat arse. Still, it was shapely enough to have Nate choking on his own spit and nearly falling over himself to get up and _away_. He muttered something to the Warden about scouting the area; the Warden just grunted in response.

Anders remained where he was, bent over his robe, all lean perfection gleaming in the firelight, with only a drunk dwarf and a spirit-possessed dead man as witness. _Typical_.

He huffed a breath and stood, yanking the robe back on. He didn’t bother to close it yet, however, enjoying the cool night air against his dangly bits. Besides, maybe the Warden would finally look over and admire him if he just stood still long enough. Someone damn well should; otherwise, he’d have pinched his nipples into rosy peaks for nothing.

“You’re hungry for attention,” Justice added, and Anders glanced over. There was no _interest_ in Justice’s gaze, of course, but even so, he found himself preening just a little at the focused regard. He didn’t need anyone to tell him he was lovely, but it certainly helped to hear the compliments…and ever since he’d left the Tower this last time, his life had been a veritable desert of compliments. If no one else would give him what he craved, then he supposed Justice have to would do. “And for food, as well. Why do you starve yourself?”

…oh.

Well _that_ wasn’t what he wanted.

Anders yanked his robe closed with a huff, tying the belt about his waist and he went to sit next to his friend. His bony knees poked up, but there was no use trying to soften the lines of his body in becoming contortions—Justice had the soul of a turnip. “I don’t starve myself,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just…judiciously select my meals.” Anders glanced around, vain enough (always vain enough) to make sure no one could overhear before admitting in an undertone, “I’m not as young as I used to be. If I’m not careful, I could put on weight.”

Justice just looked at him flatly. “You need to put on weight,” he said. “You have no fat on you.”

Anders fluttered his lashes playfully. “Why thank you,” he crooned, only to laugh when Justice’s expression didn’t change. Ah, well. It was fun trying, anyway. “That’s a mortal thing,” he explained. “Wanting to look good for potential partners.”

“And you labor under the misconception that you look ‘good’ when you are starved?”

“…ouch,” he said. “Justice, that cut deep.”

The spirit shifted. “I did not mean to offend,” he said. “I only want to understand.”

“Well,” Anders said slowly. “All right. It’s like this: many of us mortals…we just want people to _want_ us.” He paused, biting at his lower lip. “ _I._ _I_ just want people to want _me_. Ever since I was young, that was the best way to feel…in control of my life, I suppose. To be desired.”

Justice studied him. “And for mortals, it is desirable to be bones and skin? Am I desirable then?”

Anders paused.

Cleared his throat.

Tried to figure out if Justice was joking.

Remembered Justice was a spirit of the Fade and didn’t know _how_ to joke. “Ah,” he began. “Well. I suppose some people may find you desirable? Some people may find Oghren desirable, too. I mean, there are all kinds. I just have been a certain kind of, ah, desirable all my life, and now that I’m pushing up there a bit in age, I have to work to make sure that doesn’t change.”

“What if someone you desired the attention of did not desire a form with no fat on it?” Justice demanded. “What if they preferred practical storage of energy?”

Anders shrugged a lean shoulder, feeling awkward and out of sorts. “Well, then, I suppose I either would relax my diet and put on weight or not attract them,” he said. A flicker of movement out in the brush caught his eye and he stilled, ready to call the alarm…but no, it was just Nate, peering out toward the fire like a regular creeper.

Watching _him_.

A slow smile breaking across his narrow face, Anders stood—gracefully, purposefully, letting his hip cock and his hair fall back from his face. “But until that day,” he said, subtly shifting a shoulder to let the edge of his robe fall down, revealing the line of his throat, the curve of his clavicle, the shape of his lean arm, “at least I’ve still got _this_. Excuse me.”

He moved into the brush, straight for Nate, a predatory bounce in his step.


	3. Chapter 3

He happened to catch a glimpse of himself in the basin just as he was leaning down to splash cold water across his face.

Golden-brown hair straggled from its half-ponytail, lank ends falling unwashed about his sunken cheeks. His eyes were bleary, shadows painted dark beneath the lids, and honest-to-Maker _wrinkles_ were beginning to sketch out the corners.

He was skinny to the point of starvation, dingy grey clothes hanging off his skeletal frame, reminding him of the passenger he now carried inside his head. He looked, this early Kirkwall morning, _old_ and tired and nothing at all like the vain little ponce he used to be.

“Well, Justice,” Anders said with a laugh, dipping his hands into the water and splashing his face. The cold was bracing, ripples distorting the mirror image. Good. He didn’t have much use for mirrors anymore anyway. “I’m pretty sure _no one’s_ going to find either of us all that attractive anymore.”

Mostly unconcerned, he lit the light over his clinic door and set about a new day.


	4. Chapter 4

“So, thanks again for helping,” Hawke said. He’d been _thanking_ Anders for days now, ever since they’d made their way out of the Deep Roads with his sister alive and…well, not exactly _well_ , but hey, definitely alive. “Really. It’ll be hard not seeing Bethany every day, but knowing she’s with the Wardens… I don’t know what Mom and I would have done if you hadn’t have been able to save her.”

Anders looked up from wrapping a bandage, smiling through a lank fall of his hair. Truthfully, he would have done a lot more for the Hawkes. “You don’t have to keep thanking me,” he said.

Hawke just laughed, shifting in place and looking adorably boyish, despite the massive breadth of him and that dark beard flecked with the occasional early silver. “Yeah, I think I do,” he countered. “I pretty much owe you everything.”

_You could pay me back with a kiss_ , Anders thought, then blinked at himself. Oh. Hm. Where had _that_ come from?

He tipped back, hands stilling on the bandage, and did a quick bout of soul-searching even as Hawke kept talking about the Deep Roads and the Wardens and his _serious, serious gratitude_. From the moment he’d taken Justice into him—and had broken things off with Nate as a consequence—he’d never once thought about sex. Attraction, or attracting attention, or any of that other nonsense he used to care so much about was just so much smoke to him now. He had other, more important things with which to fill his mind.

Only now he was noticing just how strong Hawke was, those muscles bulging at the homespun fabric of his shirt, his lips soft-looking against the scruff of his beard. He was about Anders’s age—maybe a year or two younger—but he had an appealing youth about him, too, especially when he grinned or blushed or, Maker save him, _both at once_.

He was a more than competent warrior and a friend and, oh hey, he also smelled _really wonderful_ ; why hadn’t Anders noticed that consciously before?

_I am attracted to Hawke_ , Anders realized with a sinking stomach, watching as Hawke talked with his big, scarred hands, gesturing broadly. _I want those hands on me. And Hawke…_

Anders tilted his head in that way he used to, letting his hair fall back to reveal the line of his throat. Hawke didn’t even blink, seeming not to notice, blast it. Anders twisted his lips into a wry smile and settled back into place. _Hawke doesn’t exactly share the sentiment. Bloody void._

“Anyway,” Hawke said, catching himself in an endearing ramble. “I was actually just dropping by to give you this. Mother baked it,” he added, reaching back to snag the basket he’d dropped onto the workstation. “She’s taken up the hobby again now that we’ve got a decent oven and enough money for ingredients.” He laughed, pushing the basket into Anders’ arms. “I told her you wouldn’t be interested, but she’s vowed to bake you something every day, as thanks for Bethany. Feel free to pawn it off on someone else if you want.”

Anders lifted the bit of cheesecloth to see an iced loaf, cinnamon filling his lungs. “That is very kind of her,” he said, letting it drop again. He wasn’t interested in sinfully rich baked goods, much less the ridiculous extravagance of one of day, but he knew it was kinder to play along. Someone somewhere was sure to want it anyway—maybe he could give slices away to the children who came to see him? “Please tell her thank you for me.”

“I will,” Hawke promised. With one last friendly—and not at all lascivious or romantic or _any_ other such inclination, damn it all—smile, Hawke turned on his heel and headed out of the clinic, whistling as he went. Anders let his gaze drop to the warrior’s backside, watching the tight bunch and sway of his rather glorious arse all the way. He felt a stir of heat in his gut at the sight, and a bit of a response from lower down; that was new enough to make him laugh and shake his head.

“I thought I was done with all that, Justice,” he said to himself, setting aside the basket and turning back to his work: the bandages wouldn’t roll themselves, and he had pages he needed to edit before the first wave of the injured came to seek him out. “Wouldn’t it just figure that the one man able to stir the old fires has _no_ interest in me?”

Justice didn’t answer, of course. He couldn’t, not since their spirits had melded so completely. But still, it felt good to talk to him from time to time—it gave Anders an excuse to get out of his own head. He whistled an echo of Hawke’s jaunty tune as he refocused on work, letting his fingers fly and his mind wander.

He didn’t notice when his eyes flared a subtle blue. He didn’t notice when he reached over into that basket and drew out the first piece of iced loaf. He didn’t notice the sweet taste on his tongue, or the warmth filling his body, or the way he didn’t stop eating until the last slice was gone and the basket stowed away, forgotten…until the next day.

And the next.

And the next.


	5. Chapter 5

Anders sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair, frowning down at the empty page. The words that had come so easily just a few hours before seemed to have dried up again. It was frustrating how often that seemed to be happening—if it kept up, he’d still be working on this blasted thing years from now.

_I should get out of here_ , he thought, nibbling on the end of his quill. _Go for a walk. Get some fresh air. See what Hawke is up to._

The thought was barely finished before someone was pushing through the clinic door. Anders turned in his seat, curious…and maybe a little hopeful, if the skip to his heart was anything to go by. But no, it wasn’t Hawke stepping inside but one of the messenger boys he often employed—a carrot-topped little thing whose mother died on the voyage from Ferelden.

The boy paused on the threshold, looking around. “Things’re quieter than usual today,” he said.

“I expect the lull to be broken soon enough,” Anders replied dryly. He watched as the boy wove through the tables to reach him, arms full of one of Leandra Hawke’s wicker baskets.

_I really need to tell her to stop_ , Anders reminded himself, even as he sighed and made room on his work table. Leandra was just as big-hearted as her son—so far she had kept her word to send him something every day. Not just cakes and ices and sweet breads but full meals as well, once (he suspected) Hawke let on that Anders often skipped more meals than he ate.

It was sweet, really. But completely unnecessary.

Anders tossed back the edge of the cheesecloth to get a look inside. The big basket was packed with a veritable picnic: dried and flavored meats, a loaf of bread, small dishes of honey and goat’s cheese, a small grouping of fruit and a truly impressive array of little golden-topped tarts. Their domes gleamed with a dusting of sugar, and they would no doubt be far too sweet on the tongue.

He shook his head. This was getting ridiculous. If this was the way Leandra fed her own family every day, the Hawke siblings must have had metabolisms faster than any of Isabela’s fabled ships to compensate. Otherwise, they’d be round as barons and twice as lazy. The only time he’d ever allowed himself such an extravagance was when that fabled Warden hunger first kicked in, but he’d quit cold turkey the moment he’d realized those sweet moments on the lips were going straight to his no-longer-so-svelte hips.

Anders couldn’t help but smile as he remembered the panic he’d been filled with the first time he sat up from sleep and realized the tiniest little roll of flesh was gathering at his stomach. It was barely enough to be called _fat_ , and yet he’d flown into a frenzy to excise it, too vain to handle the thought of being anything other than slim.

Of course, now he didn’t so much care about the shape or tone of his body, but a lifetime’s habit was hard to break. He pushed the basket away. “Here, you should take this to share with your friends,” Anders said, turning to the boy…only to realize the lad was long gone.

_Woolgathering again_ , he scolded himself, shaking away the past to focus on his manifesto pages again. Oh well. He’d perhaps have a slice of bread later before pawning off the rest on his next client.

But that wasn’t what happened. Over the next hour, as Anders diligently worked, his free hand snuck into the basket over and over and over again, bringing one sweet bite to his mouth after the other. It was a great feast, big enough to feed a man for a day, and more than he’d ever had in one sitting. He began to shift as his stomach grew uncomfortably full, unaccustomed to food of any true quantity…but then, as that old Warden’s hunger reignited, the pain faded into a glowing sense of pleasure, of peace, radiating out from his core like its own sort of healing spell.

Lulling him into easy, utterly unaware complacency.


	6. Chapter 6

Maker, why was he so bloody tired all of a sudden?

Anders straightened from the careful mincing of elfroot, yawning huge. His body fell heavy and warm, that lovely contentment spreading through him from the base of his gut, as if he’d somehow swallowed candlelight. He reached down to rub the subtle swell of his gut, digging the heel of his palm into the roundest bit.

It had been weeks and weeks since Leandra had started sending him baskets, and already he’d forgotten he meant to ask her to stop. Really, this time, he needed to write it down. The massive cake (frosted with peaks of buttercream and dotted with sugared fruits) was sinfully sweet and far too much for someone like him.

…despite the fact that he’d eaten the monstrous thing all by himself in one sitting.

He rubbed the little pooch of his belly and darted his tongue to the corner of his mouth, licking away the last proof of the cake. With it went his memory of ever touching it, and Anders turned toward his little cot with surprisingly sluggish steps.

He wasn’t the type to nap during the day—or sleep much at all, really—but he really was unexpectedly, terribly tired. Perhaps a couple of minutes wouldn’t hurt. Yawning and stumbling, sugar-dazed, Anders flopped into the waiting cot. It creaked beneath him as he settled, falling on his front before wincing and rolling over to curl around his sensitive belly instead.

_Just a couple of minutes_ , he told himself—and woke a few hours later, feeling more rested and alive than he had in _years_.


	7. Chapter 7

He was full but he wasn’t _full._ And for Anders’ unconscious mind, that was getting to be a problem.

Anders slid the empty basket down where it would be collected by one of the Hawke’s messenger boys and let his feet carry him out of the clinic. It was late enough that no one was likely to be coming for his help, but either the Hanged Man or the Rose would be full of activity. He wasn’t in the mood to rub elbows with anyone—Hawke had been gone on an extended trip to the Wounded Coast with all the companions Anders was willing to tolerate—but a little fresh air and time outside of Darktown would be nice.

And if he found himself ordering a plate or two or three as he sat back and enjoyed the lively bar, well. That was becoming so common of late that he hardly even noticed.


	8. Chapter 8

“And then, I shit you not, Hawke turned to her and said—”

Hawke laughed, leaning against the rough tavern bar. “No one wants to hear what Hawke had to say, Varric,” he protested. “Not even _Hawke_ wants to hear what Hawke had to say.”

The dwarf practically twinkled up at him. “Ah, but I promise it was good,” he said. “Not to mention poetic.”

“I’m sorry, what was that you said?” Isabela countered from Varric’s other side. She was leaning hard against the bartop, head propped on her fist and empty flagon cradled in her other palm. “Was that… _not to mention pathetic_?”

Hawke quirked a brow. “Oof, guess you’re still sore about last night,” he teased. “Good to know before you sucker me into a round of cards.”

Varric visibly perked. “Last night?” he echoed—and _only_ Varric would be able to manage both academically curious and jokingly lascivious at the same time.

Isabela gave a snort. “Are you asking if I let Hawke row his dingy into my harbor?” she asked.

“…ouch,” he said. Yeah, ‘Bela was _definitely_ still annoyed with him.

She just waved him off. “Not last night, not the night before, and never so long as I’m missing all the key assets; isn’t that right, Hawke?”

He pretended not to hear her, but Varric tipped closer, all ears. “ _Key assets_ , is it? Come on, Rivaini, don’t hold out on me.”

“I’m not the one holding out,” she said, and that was enough to have Hawke glancing back with a sudden flash of worry. She _had_ hit on him once upon a time, and he’d let her down—gently, he’d thought. Did she hold some kind of grudge for that?

But no, Isabela flashed him a broad wink followed by a wonderfully evil smile, and Hawke had to laugh as he settled back against the bar. It looked like she was through tormenting him for the perceived slight of last night and had moved on to more tempting targets: namely, his biographer.

Hawke waved that off, leaving ‘Bela to her game, and studied the open floor of the Hanged Man. It was busy tonight, a recent payday filling pockets for once. Badly watered-down ale flowed, hot meals were served, and voices rose in a veritable roar as the people of Kirkwall fought to ignore just how shitty their lives really were. The back rooms were probably doing just as much business as the front, Hawke figured—it was the kind of night where a body wanted to get thoroughly sauced and find a likely partner to bed down with for the night.

That—plus half an ear on Isabela and Varric’s increasingly lurid conversation—had his mind and his eye wandering. It had been a bloody long time since he gave in to the urge to find a bedwarmer. Most of that was due to sheer exhaustion. He’d been running full-tilt since the escape from Lothering, fighting to keep his sister out of harm’s way and his mother out of the gutter. But part had something to do with those mysterious _proclivities_ ‘Bela was still teasing Varric with. In a city so deeply impoverished, there simply weren’t many partners who fit his…ah, ideal.

Every now and again, a merchant would catch his eye. Or an indolent noble. Or, once, a visiting dignitary, swathed in colorful silks that hugged the heavy round curve of his belly. Hawke had been plenty tempted _then_ , blood heating at the way fine cloth strained over a well-fed body, skimming every curve and roll like a lover’s touch.

He’d all but swallowed his tongue at the sight of the man. He’d _absolutely_ mortified himself when he tripped over his own feet, clattering to the cobblestones in a graceless heap. The gorgeous man had looked at him once—sprawled out at his feet like the idiot farmboy he truly was—and sniffed before turning away, absolutely glorious arse swaying like a ship cresting waves as he strode out of Hawke’s league.

He shook his head at the memory, wry smile tugging at his lips, and sipped his ale as he subtly canvassed the bar. He wasn’t likely to find anyone so perfectly suited to his desires ( _Maker_ that big belly, round as a globe beneath visibly soft tits and a fetchingly doubled chin), but there was still the occasional Templar gone to pot who might suit. Or another merchant who sampled too much of his wares. Or…

Or…

_Oh._

His gaze settled on a man seated several tables away. Or, rather, his gaze moved like a loadstone to the man’s rump, which was framed like a heart as he leaned over the table to secure another helping of whatever wonderful slop he was currently stuffing himself with.

The room was smoky enough that his homespun clothes could have been any shade between brown and grey, but there was no mistaking the way they squeezed that backside like two eagerly cupping hands. Maker, but the man was squeezed into those trousers tight—the fabric was practically suctioned on, outlining a delightful flare to his hips, a roundness that had Hawke slowly straightening.

It wasn’t a fat arse, but it was…promising. Enough to at least give his heart a skip, even if it fell much smaller than what he most preferred. But that wasn’t what was so appealing—no, what had Hawke taking notice was the sheer ridiculous _tightness_ of those pants, the way the middle seam went white as it strained over what could only have been a fairly recent gain.

A man who wore trousers like that either had no other options or wasn’t aware yet how poorly his wardrobe fit his blooming body, and as much as Hawke hated himself for finding the latter _absolutely bloody compelling_ , he couldn’t help letting his imagination run away with him.

He let his gaze skim down as the man began to settle back in his seat. Plush, heart-shaped arse. Thighs that weren’t chubby, but were creeping close, filling out the pants legs near to bursting. A flaring waist leading up to narrow shoulders outlined by the tight pull of a too-small shirt. He couldn’t see anything in the back that could be causing that kind of tug on material, so it had to be a belly—probably much, much smaller than a handful, but perhaps just enough to roll between his fingers if he was lucky.

…and here he was perving over some man without even seeing his face _or_ knowing his name. Shameful, really.

Too bad he was too busy being intrigued to be ashamed.

“I’ll be back, you two,” he said, swallowing down the last of his ale before sliding the empty glass onto the bartop. He pushed away, ignoring whatever playfully foul thing ‘Bela called after him—too intent on the mystery man to notice.

He had a nice neck, Hawke decided. Pale skin and visible knobs of spine despite some gentle softening. His hair was brown…no, blonde…no, somewhere in between, pulled back into a ponytail. One hand was curled around his mug and the other was busy stuffing his face, moving at a rapid clip that had Hawke’s cheeks heating. There were two empty plates off to his left, and another full one waiting once he had plowed his way through what he had. Well, _that_ was certainly interesting—and explained why he might have been in such desperate need for new trousers.

Either way, this was definitely someone Hawke needed to know.

Subtly checking his breath and pushing back his bangs in as rakish a manner as possible, Hawke moved to stand just past his mystery man’s shoulder. “Hi,” he said, fumbling for some kind of line. “Mind if I join you?”

The man glanced over his shoulder, brows arching, and Hawke very nearly fell on his own arse when _Anders_ said, “Since when have you ever needed to ask?”

What? The _void_?

“ _Anders_?” Hawke sputtered, staring. It was like looking into Merrill’s creepy mirror, everything strange and distorted. On the one hand, he could still see the stranger that had aroused his interest: softening edges, plumpening backside, clear headward tilt into hedonism. The too-tight shirt strained over the small hill of his stomach, extended into an adorable pooch thanks to his big (big, _big_ ) meal. The bottom edge was just starting to ride up a little, flashing a crescent of flesh, and while the meaty bulge of it would all but certainly fade with sleep and digestion, the soft strain of his hips and _that arse_ clearly indicated this wasn’t the first big dinner Anders had seen over the last few months. Eventually, that kind of eating left its mark in a big way.

On the other hand… _Anders_.

Hawke sank down onto the bench beside him, trying not to stare as Anders absently tucked back into his meal. He felt weirdly disoriented, as if he’d been clocked over the head. Since when had Anders actually cared about eating? Andraste’s tits, since when had Anders started to get _plump_? And how hadn’t he noticed? He _always_ noticed this sort of thing!

…except, Anders’ face was still slim, and he did wear those robes…

“What happened to your robes?” Hawke blurted, feeling oddly like a teenager back in his first fumbling attempts to talk to boys. “I mean, why are you wearing…that?” _That_ being pants indecently painted on; fuck, he almost swore he could hear the seams protesting as Anders shifted and shoveled another bite into his mouth.

Anders, thank the Maker, didn’t seem to notice Hawke’s strained voice. “Merrill happened,” he said. His hands were moving over his dinner, his drink, so gracefully it was almost like a dance. Cut bite chew swallow. Cut bite chew swallow. Again and again. “She was…helping…me in the clinic, and she managed to spill ink everywhere. I’d have to have stayed the night in, but I remembered a pair of trousers you fished out of a barrel somewhere, so here I am.”

He smiled, narrow face going warm, eyes finding Hawke’s. “And here you are.”

“And here I am,” Hawke echoed weakly, watching as Anders finished his plate and set it aside. The mage hoisted himself up with a soft grunt that went _straight_ to Hawke’s cock, that wonderful arse in the air again as Anders leaned across the table to grab _yet another plate_. His stuffed belly was so packed it was a small hard dome, peeking out from beneath the simple homespun shirt, flashing at Hawke in disturbing temptation.

This…this was all wrong. This was Anders. His friend, Anders, who was most certainly not attractive in any way. Except right here, right now, he almost _was_. He was certainly a lot less…skinny than Hawke had always assumed. Those apostate robes certainly hid a… a… a upsettingly interesting body.

He shoved that thought away and forced himself to smile as Anders settled back into his seat and tucked into his meal. He couldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t. Starting _right now_ he wouldn’t think about Anders in any way but friendly.

_Starting right now_ , Hawke told himself, keeping up a light conversation with his friend and refusing to let his gaze stray, even as that bloated, over-stuffed little belly of Anders’ began to force the criminally tight shirt to slowly rise up the taut line of his body, revealing the visibly growing heft of him. _Most definitely starting right the void now_.


	9. Chapter 9

_Don’t do this_ , Hawke told himself, even as he washed his hands and rolled up his sleeves. _Don’t be this person_ , he thought as he measured out the ingredients and set to baking. _This is really very creepy, you realize_ , his common sense screamed as he put on his cleanest and most flattering clothes, packed up the baskets—plural!—and headed downstairs to the Darktown access. _You will regret every moment later_ , the last shreds of his dignity all but wailed.

And yet, still, he slipped through the doorway to Anders’ clinic, arms laden with baskets of freshly-baked treats.

There was absolutely no excusing what he was doing—and perhaps even more worrying, no explaining it. There was no easy lie that translated into _oops, haha, I just happened to go on a crazy baking spree; please, I insist you take this mountain of leftovers_. If he had the common sense of a nug, he’d turn right back around to where he’d come from.

But then his roving eye spotted Anders sitting at his little writing desk, feathery end of his quill firmly between his teeth, fingers of his other hand tangled in his hair. He was dressed down for the late hour, night-shirt and dingy grey leggings snug enough that Hawke could see that wonderful softness he’d been obsessing over for the past week or more—a subtle widening that had his head all but spinning with the implications.

Those leggings were just as tight as Anders’ trousers had been, the shirt possibly the exact same he’d worn that evening, already hugging the little bit of pudge as if to highlight it, golden hair loose and brushing a perhaps _slightly_ rounder cheek, and, and…

“Oh no, he’s hot,” Hawke whispered to himself, frozen in spot at the renewed blow to the gut _that_ was.

Or if not exactly hot yet—not exactly Hawke’s type yet—clearly on his way there. _Fast_. And that more than anything had Hawke’s stomach twisting up tight, because if Anders had put on this weight so quickly without seeming to either notice or care, then how much more would he put on? What would those widening hips, that softening face, that impressive little potbelly look like in another few weeks? A few months? Maker, a year.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine soft, supple curves, pale flesh, a charming double chin and little tits balanced above a magnificent _belly_ spilling forward and just begging for Hawke to press close and knead and _squeeze_.

In a year, gaining like he was, Anders truly would be everything Hawke was most attracted to, and the weird double vision of that was enough to make his head spin. It was very nearly enough to make parts lower down…uncomfortably interested.

He shifted at the thought, awkward, weirdly anxious, and must have made just enough noise to reach Anders. The other man looked over with a start, surprise instantly warming into pleasure at the sight of him. “Hawke,” Anders said in greeting, pushing away from the desk. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Er, no,” Hawke said, coming forward. He felt like such a great big perv for the way his eyes dropped instinctively down to the way that shirt hugged the curve of Anders’ little gut. “Why would you? Uh, I brought…”

He gestured, spreading his arms wide, baskets swinging.

Anders blinked in surprise, then laughed. “More gifts from your mother?” he said, coming to relieve Hawke of one. He peeled back the cheesecloth to peer inside, whistled at the overstuffed bounty of sweets inside. “Maker. I know I say this every time, but she really doesn’t have to do all this. Especially since she already sent a full basket this morning.” He jerked his chin toward an empty basket waiting for to be picked up by the messenger boy.

Hawke cleared his throat, following Anders to his desk. “Well,” he said, uncertain how to admit that, no, this wasn’t his mother’s doing: this was all thanks to her pervy lout of a son. “You, ah, know how it is.”

Anders cast him a wry look over his shoulder. “All too well by now. You know, if I didn’t know better, I would almost swear your mother was trying to fatten me up.”

He very nearly swallowed his tongue as he fought to keep a straight face, but thankfully, Anders was already refocusing on the basket, unpacking it. Small cakes and sweets and pies and… He really had gone a bit overboard, hadn’t he? “Ah, and this one,” he said, awkwardly setting the second basket down. It was stuffed just as full as the first—and he really shouldn’t be thinking of _stuffed_ right now. Not with Anders looking over the offerings with such frank interest in his eyes.

“I keep telling myself I’m setting these aside for people who come to the clinic,” Anders said, brushing his fingers over the sugar-crusted top of one of the pastries. “But between the two of us, I’m not sure I…manage.”

“You’re not _sure_?” That didn’t sound good.

Anders shook his head, turning to face him. “That’s not quite what I meant. Or, at least, not anymore. I think at first I was just… It’s almost like when Justice takes over, except nowhere near as complete or invasive or…” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not explaining this right. It just seems like when I’m around food, I’m not quite as present as I could be. As if Justice keep subtly pushing me aside and taking control.”

“Right,” Hawke said slowly. “Except instead of, well, justice, he wants…pies?”

Anders snorted a laugh. “All right, yes, it sounds ridiculous out loud. That probably isn’t what’s going on at all. He’s never cared if I ate or not before. Probably I’m just making excuses for what a bloody pig I’ve been lately. To be honest, it’s beginning to feel like when I get around food, I can’t seem to…help myself.”

He shrugged a shoulder, looking away as if embarrassed, completely oblivious to the way his words were lighting up corners of Hawke’s mind that had never seen the light of day. The mental image of Anders being _unable to help himself_ was distressingly hot—perhaps made all the more distressing because Anders clearly wasn’t happy about it.

And here he was bringing him baskets of sweets.

“It’s almost like I have this compulsion to eat,” Anders was continuing, oblivious to Hawke’s crisis of conscience. “I’ve only really noticed it over the past week, but it’s been going on for longer than that. I mean…” He gave an embarrassed, slightly bitter laugh and dropped a hand to his stomach, framing the soft little bulge. “This isn’t the result of a few _days_.”

“I think you look,” Hawke began, earnest, but Anders waved him off before he could find the right word.

“It doesn’t really matter how I look anymore,” Anders said. “That’s what I keep telling myself. Fat or thin, young or old. I’m not… It’s not like I’m going to be attracting anyone.” He cleared his throat and poked through the second basket, lingering over the savory cheeses and spreads. “I don’t _want_ to attract anyone.”

That last was said like an affirmation, and Hawke swallowed back the anxious compliments.

Anders sighed, then laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking over at Hawke. “I doubt you expected your generosity to be repaid by my whining about my strange appetite and ballooning figure.”

“Um,” Hawke said.

“Maybe I should just give in to fate,” Anders continued, picking up a cheese pasty. Its crust glistened in the candlelight. “Accept that my body knows better than my mind. Or maybe this is punishment for years of vanity. Maybe Justice is teaching me a lesson about the sins of the flesh by ensuring I have more than enough…flesh…to stave off other distractions.” He turned the pasty this way and that, studying it—almost detached, as if making some grave decision. “Maybe the reason I’ve felt so out of synch with myself these last few weeks is because I was fighting it. If I give in, I may get massive, but at least I’ll be in control.”

_Andraste preserve me_ , Hawke thought, trapped somewhere between confused and intrigued and _absolutely fucking titillated_ as Anders studied the feast laid out before him with a considering gaze. As if he might very well say _fuck it all_ and just dive right in, willfully embracing his weight gain and inviting more.

…as a way to keep _Justice_ from forcing it on him, and that was fucked up enough that he wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

Also, if he was laboring under the assumption that it was better to let himself get fat because _fat Anders_ wouldn’t have to worry about attracting unwanted and distracting attention, well. There was one huge flaw in that logic, and it was standing a few feet away, trying not to get a guilty boner.

He cleared his throat. “Anders,” Hawke began slowly, “obviously I’ll support whatever you want…”

“Thank you,” Anders said, glancing at him. There was a flash of blue in the core of his eyes, there and gone again so quickly Hawke wasn’t sure he’d truly seen it. “I’m glad I have a friend like you. Now,” he added, taking a seat at his desk. He lifted the pasty in something close to a salute. “If you didn’t want to see someone eat his weight in baked goods, you should probably go. Just the smell of it is about to drive me crazy.”

Hawke swallowed a low noise. It was like something out of one of his filthiest dreams, and half of him wanted to stay and watch (watch Anders lose control. Watch Anders stuff himself. Watch Anders’ stomach go rounder and rounder, bigger and bigger as it was stuffed to the brim with all sorts of fattening treats that would add inches to his sides, even more plush heft to his sweetheart arse.) Another half of him was already making him back up—back away. Because this was _Anders_ , his friend, and it was like having worlds collide to think about him _that way_. Sexually, graphically, shamefully, oh Maker.

“I…right,” Hawke said, backpedaling away from the thing he most wanted. “I’ll…you enjoy.”

“Thanks again, Hawke,” Anders said before taking his first bite, underscored by a sound that was so good it was criminal. And then his eyes were flashing subtly again and he was tucking in as if he needed the next bite, and the next, and the next to live—and whether that was Justice taking over or just Anders settling into a defiant groove, Hawke couldn’t say.

Mostly because he turned tail like a coward and ran, heat blooming through his body at the thought of what was happening in that little clinic in Darktown.


	10. Chapter 10

Maker, he was stuffed.

Anders leaned back against the (ominously creaking) chair and blew out a breath. He felt ridiculously heavy, gravid, as if his entire body has been weighted down at the stomach.

 _No_ , he chided himself, reaching down to rub his palm against the stuffed-tight dome. _Call it what it is: a belly_. He’d stopped having a _stomach_ somewhere back around the time Hawke had brought him those two baskets simply overflowing with treats. The result of that gluttony had been painful but good—a memory he was embarrassed to recall even as he seemed determined to relive it nearly every day since. Because Hawke kept coming _back_ , bringing him extra treats, gifting him with fresh bread and pastries and pies and on and on and on, as if he and his mother really were set on fattening him up like a prize nug for fair.

“If that’s the goal,” Anders said, blowing out a breath and cupping the roundest part of him before giving it an experimental jiggle, “then I suppose congratulations on a job well done are in order.” His stomach—belly—gurgled against his palm and he let out a muffled belch, shifting in the creaking chair to spread his thighs and give the round globe more room. It settled within the valley of his thighs, shirt rolled up just beneath his tits to reveal every straining inch, packed so tight his skin had gone pale with the strain. Anders stroked his fingers along the hard curve of it, marveling at how absolutely massive he looked—pinned back by his own gut, strained and round and big as a strange sort of pregnancy, plush thighs cradling its widest width and little folds of flesh arcing away to creep over the too-tight waist of his biggest pair of leggings in an ever-growing apron.

He shook his head, amazed at himself, and gave his over-stuffed belly a gentle shake. “You are so bloody fat,” Anders muttered. He’d been putting on weight like crazy over the last few weeks, but it was moments like these when he truly felt the difference: his tongue still tasted of sugar and chocolate, and the remains of his meal lay scattered across the table in stark reminder of what he’d done to himself.

Fuck, but the outer dome of his belly actually brushed against the edge of the table every time he took a breath. Another few bites and he would’ve found himself overflowing his own furniture.

“So _bloody_ fat.” He gave the over-packed gut a light slap, wincing at the pain even as he accepted it gladly. It made him feel in control even in the face of his obvious _lack_ of control. The weight hadn’t exactly been creeping on, but it wasn’t until lately that he’d really begun to be _aware_ of it at every moment, even when he wasn’t stuffed to the gills.

It was in the way his hips kept knocking into things. The soft, subtle jiggle as he walked. The way even his robes strained around his body as he all but raced to outgrow everything he owned. His stomach— _belly_ , damn it—was the most obvious change, swelling out from his plumpening body even when he wasn’t full, but everything else…

There was just so much _everything else_ , from thicker thighs to an arse that didn’t seem to want to fit into any of his narrow chairs quite the same to his softer arms to even his chest. It was all a magnitude bigger than it used to be, and if he kept insisting on eating like he’d never see food again…

“You know, Justice,” Anders said, cradling his gut between his palms, rubbing away the ache, “if you keep doing this to us, we’re going to be as round as any lordling before long. Is that what you want? For us to be a mountain of flesh, waddling after Hawke with a trail of crumbs left in our wake?”

Justice, as usual, didn’t answer…but there was a noise drifting from his clinic door that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Anders twisted to look over his shoulder, groaning at the strain against his over-packed belly as he did so. Isabela stood framed by the open doorway, one hand on her cocked hip and a smirk stretched across her face. “If you’re here to have another venereal disease cured, go away,” Anders said, flopping back into his chair with a huff. His thighs, Maker help him, had to spread even wider to accommodate his girth. All jokes aside, he truly was getting alarmingly _round_. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh, _sugar_ ,” she tutted, moving closer. He could see her just out of the corner of his eye, hips swaying in that way she had. “I’m not here for anything like that. I’m here to check in on _you_. Andraste’s tits,” Isabela added, coming to a stop just to the right of his chair. She cast her gaze over the crumbs littering the table before crouching down beside him, one hand reaching out to brazenly cup his belly. “Get a look at you. When’s it due, and is it Hawke’s?”

He tried to wave her away, but Isabela just laughed and pinched the deepening roll of fat at his side, clearly unwilling to be put off. “If I tell you Hawke took me in a manly way and planted me with his strapping Ferelden babies, will you leave me alone?”

“No,” she said, giving the outer curve of his gut a little rub, “but I’d believe it.”

“Yes, I know,” he snapped, slouching back and letting her do whatever she wanted with him, utterly at her mercy. He was too stuffed stupid to fight back—and besides, the gentle pressure of her fingers felt _incredible_. “I’m bloody well _fat_. Tell me something I can’t see for myself.”

She shook her head, grinning up at him. “Oh, you’re getting plenty fat all right,” she agreed easily enough, “but that wasn’t what I meant. I was talking about _Hawke_.”

Anders blinked at her. “If you’re trying to suggest that Hawke’s putting on weight, I hate to break it to you…” Hawke was just as hard-bodied and perfect as the day they’d met. If anything, he only grew _more_ beautiful as time passed, where Anders, well.

Anders was a long, long ways away from the lithe, golden-haired boy who might have been able to tempt a man like him.

He let out a long breath, staring down the slump of his own body. It was surreal to even look at himself sometimes. The changes had come so rapidly, so overwhelmingly, like a tidal wave: ruining a perfectly beautiful (the lingering threads of his vanity tried to insist) body and leaving nothing but bloat and blubber in its wake.

 _Void_. Slouched down like this, all he _saw_ was his belly rising up like some forgotten island, the snaking pink stretch marks a clear reminder of binges past.

But Isabela was talking. “…about Hawke wanting to throw you down and fuck you silly, of course,” she said, running her thumb along the rounded path of his happy trail, and, well, wait, what?

“What?” Anders said, blinking out of his thoughts to stare at her. He tried to sit up, but he was too damn full to do anything but grunt and fall back again. Isabela laughed in delight, giving his wobbly belly a little pat, but he ignored the flare of embarrassment. “What did you say?”

“Oh, _honey_ ,” she cooed. “Your head really has been stuffed up your arse if you haven’t noticed the way Hawke’s been staring at your…well… _arse._ ” Isabela laughed and left a stinging slap to his gut, standing in one ridiculously fluid move. “Or maybe your head’s been stuffed somewhere else. Face-first in a pie, maybe?” She nudged an empty tin out of the way so she could perch on the edge of the table. “I’m never going to get over how you went from skin and bones to _this_. It is all happening so fast, too, like we’re watching you inflate belly-first.”

Anders held up a hand. “Tease me later,” he said. “Tell me about Hawke now. What makes you think he’s interested?” The mere idea seemed laughable. Back when he was young, and thin, and vain as a peacock, people were interested. _Lots_ of people, all the time. He used to love lazing about in the sunlight, deliberately flashing a bit of long, lean thigh or even a bit of hip of he could get away with it.

But that had been _years_ ago now. Before Justice, before the Wardens, before time and sense and purpose had hammered into him. And now…

 _Now this_ , Anders thought, touching his own side as Isabela spun some ridiculous farce about Hawke watching his _fat arse_ sway across the room like a starving dog after a bone. The little roll of flesh at his side was perhaps not quite so little anymore. He had no real way of estimating how much weight he’d gained—he hadn’t exactly been keeping track of how much he’d _lost_ since Justice, first—but it was enough on his perpetually skinny frame to make him feel absolutely massive. Truly fat, with flaring hips and love handles and a belly that pooched out well in front of him even when it _wasn’t_ stuffed to the absolute max. Padding at his tits and a bit of a second chin and just, so much softness everywhere.

His thighs were in danger of _brushing_ when he walked. How was this his body—and how could Hawke ever even think to want it?

“You’re wrong,” Anders told Isabela, cutting off her lascivious monologue about all the things Hawke apparently wanted to do to his ever-widening backside. “Or you’re playing with me, or _something_. And even if you weren’t—” which wasn’t possible, and much as Anders wished it were “—I’m not…interested.”

Maker, what a lie. But it was what he’d been telling himself all this time, wasn’t it? That he didn’t care whether Justice was pulling him head-first into this drastic change in his body because at least now he could finally put aside the last sins of the flesh (ha! Considering how much _flesh_ he had now, maybe he should reconsider that idea) and dedicate himself fully to his work. Sexless, undesired—and, yes, _fat fat fat_.

“You may not be interested,” Isabela shot back, giving him a hard poke in the side, “but I can tell when a man’s thirsting. And when Hawke looks at you—especially now, the bigger you’re getting—the more he looks parched.” She shrugged an elegant shoulder as if she weren’t throwing smoke bombs into his perfectly centered worldview. “He’s always liked a man with some meat on his bones.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Anders said. He felt like he was in freefall, everything he thought he understood about the world—his world—scattering around him. He clearly remembered the moment he realized he was in love with Hawke, but Hawke had shown absolutely no return interest.

 _And yet,_ a quiet part of him whispered, _he has been coming around an awful lot. Stopping by to check in and chat. Acting strange. Bringing baskets of treats._

Wait.

Anders sputtered on a breath, fighting to straighten up fully. He had to shift his soft thighs farther apart to make room for his naked belly. Roundly stuffed, it pushed into the cradle of his legs as he fought not to fall back again under its thoroughly off-balanced over-stuffed weight. “Has Hawke been trying to _make_ me fat?”

Isabela arched a single brow, watching Anders struggle with pure fond amusement on her face. “Honey, I’ve been watching you these past few months too,” she pointed out. “Hawke didn’t _make_ you anything. You’ve been getting plenty fat all on your own.” She leaned in with a smirk and jiggled his belly as if in illustration, ignoring Anders’ red-face sputter. “Not to mention _fatter_ and _fatter_ all the time. Look at you, Anders. Maybe I should be calling you my little nug instead.” She winked.

“But the baskets,” Anders said, ignoring the way she man-handled him. It was frankly mortifying to have his increased size pointed out so brazenly, and yet at the same time, it almost felt good, too. Like she was appreciating, admiring, him in a way he hadn’t been admired in a long time.

 _It would feel even better if it were Hawke touching me_ , a small part of him whispered. _Rubbing my belly and kissing my thighs and feeding me treats—_

“He and Leandra may have been sending you baskets of sweets,” Isabela was saying, ignorant of the heat curling through his straining gut, “but you’re the one stuffing your face until you can barely stand. Both here _and_ at the Hanged Man, where there’s no one but you calling for more. Besides, you really can’t blame a man for admiring the banquet already laid out for him, can you?”

Anders really had no idea whether the man _admiring the banquet_ was supposed to be him or Hawke. He decided not to ask. “And you’re…sure about this?” he said slowly. He reached up, trying to tug down his shirt, but he was too packed full—it wouldn’t even kiss his belly button, much less cover the whole of him anymore. Not when he was like this.

_Fat and full and all but helpless—a glutton._

Was it possible Hawke actually liked that? Hawke actually was _drawn_ to him like this?

Isabela gave him a final playful swat, making him flush at the soft wobble. “Why don’t you do something to get his attention and see for yourself?” she teased, hopping off the table. “If you actually pay attention to something besides stuffing that adorably full face of yours— _my little nug_ —you can discover all sorts of wonderful things.”


	11. Chapter 11

Anders considered Isabela’s suggestion that he _see for himself_ for all of ten minutes before dismissing it with a self-deprecating huff of breath. She had to be mistaken. Hawke had barely looked his way when he was…okay, fine, not exactly at his peak—that flower had lost its bloom long before he reached Kirkwall—but at least reasonably attractive. Sexy, even. People used to proposition him at The Rose on a regular basis! And not once had he caught any hint that the other man returned his desperate affection.

So, he reasoned—laying in his bunk and fighting to ignore the renewed rumblings of hunger in his still-swollen belly—if Hawke hadn’t wanted him before, he certainly wouldn’t want him now that he’d gone so determinedly to pot.

But then the next morning dawned and another basket was delivered.

The _next_ morning saw another.

And another.

And another.

The days passed one after another, each one seeing Hawke flushing (flushing! How had he missed that adorable rise of color before?) and smiling and fresh-faced, a basket over his arm. Sometimes two. He rarely lingered for more than a few minutes at a time, that blush rising up his neck before beating a hasty retreat, as if he couldn’t bear the sheer embarrassment of watching Anders stuff himself full.

_Or maybe_ , that insidious voice he’d been trying so hard to ignore whispered, _as if he likes it a little too much?_

He wanted to keep pushing the thought aside, but it kept overtaking him at the oddest moments. When he was swallowing a mouthful of sweet cream and feeling sinfully decadent. When he fell back against his chair, huffing a labored breath, bared stomach a hard dome in his lap. When he struggled to push himself up to his feet, or when he realized there was a waddle to his step post-big-meal, or especially when, much later, the hard glut of his overindulgence softened into a pale belly he could push his finger into, pillowy pudge unable to stay hidden by even the loosest of his robes anymore.

Somewhere along the way, Anders had bypassed meaty and had tipped onto the wrong side of truly _fat_ , and he _could not escape_ the idea Isabela had planted in his head that Hawke might like him this way. That he might _prefer_ him. That he might be…interested.

But he couldn’t exactly go up to Hawke and _ask_ either. Anders had once been a master coquette, but those skills rusted with age and disuse. The best he could manage now was a saucy wink—wasted when Hawke wasn’t even bloody looking!

Hawke was far too good at hiding his thoughts behind a cheerful smile, and he was far too likely to look the other way unless Anders made a true spectacle of himself. _Maybe_ , Anders finally mused, at the end of his rope, _I’d know for sure if I could get him to stay around long enough to see me eat…_ But that turned out to be a lost cause, too. Hawke was slippery as an eel and simply would not let himself be pinned down long enough for Anders to tell what he was thinking.

Desperate times were calling for truly desperate measures.

Opportunity and inspiration finally struck one fine spring morning just as he was finishing his morning feast. The messenger paused in the doorway and politely cleared her throat, big eyes fixated on the swollen dome of Anders’ belly. Soft rolls deepened about his hips as he half-turned in his chair, one hand bracing his gut. It was a little painful, but not excessively so. He’d long since passed the point where a single basket could be more than a subtly pleasant ache.

“Can I help you?” Anders asked. He refused to flush when those baldly curious eyes raked down his doughy form…though he did tug at his shirt, trying to pull it back down.

“Message for you,” she said, slowly moving forward. “From Garret Hawke.” She tipped her head, dark curls brushing her narrow cheek as she visibly took in the plush with of his embarrassingly expansive rear.

She _didn’t_ hand over the message.

“All right,” Anders said slowly. He grunted as he hoisted himself up, stance going wide to accommodate the stiff pot. He could feel the cool air against the underside of his belly, but he did his best to ignore that, facing the girl as if there was nothing to be embarrassed about. “What is it?”

She reached into a leather pouch strapped to her own skinny hips. “You know, it’s funny,” she said, fumbling blindly for the letter even as she raked him up and down with her eyes. “I’ve met a lot of Ferelden refugees in the last few years, but I’ve never met one as round as you.”

Anders flushed darkly. “Yes, well,” he said—there was no point explaining that he wasn’t Ferelden. “I suppose now you’ve seen it all.” He held out his hand, waiting patiently until she handed over the letter. Anders recognized Hawke’s looping script, his mind already sorting through endless possibilities. What could Hawke want now: a venture out to the coast? A raid in the Bone Pit?

His hands actually trembled a little as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. It felt like it had been forever since he’d been asked along anywhere. The unfortunate consequence of Hawke’s possible…interest…was an instant downgrade from the “A” team. It seemed Hawke was embarrassed enough (titillated enough? Attracted enough? Disgusted enough? There was really no telling without further investigation) to no longer want Anders tagging along.

…or did Hawke simply think he wasn’t physically up to the task of following him around anymore? If _that_ was the case, Anders was more than looking forward to an opportunity to prove bloody otherwise.

“So,” the girl said, scratching the back of her neck as Anders quickly scanned through the message, “how’d you get so fat anyway? Aren’t all you people starving or something?”

He didn’t bother looking up. “I ate all the rude messengers who got in my way,” he said idly, and it would have been funny how quickly she left him alone after _that_ if he wasn’t already focusing so hard on the task at hand. It seemed a nest of brigands had taken over a popular curve of coastline and they’d been hired to clean them out. That meant a pleasant hike out to the Wounded Coast, perhaps ten or so minutes of pitched battle, clean-up, and a stroll back. They’d be done before the noonday meal.

Smiling to himself, Anders folded up the letter and turned to grab his things. The girl had closed the door behind her, but he drew the curtain to his private little copse in the back of the clinic, just in case. Here he kept his simple furniture, his few possessions, and his robes hanging out to air-dry. Anders instinctively bypassed his old robe, reaching for the one he’d just had commissioned from one of the women he healed. It was roomier, fitting more easily about the belly and hips now that he was…

Well. Now that he needed more room, anyway.

It was little more than a grey tent with billowing sleeves and practically enough fabric to hide all of Hawke’s companions easily inside. The belt with all its pouches was the only thing keeping Anders from being swallowed alive by it, but it was a far sight better than his _old_ robe, which he hadn’t even bothered to _try_ in weeks.

He was reaching for the new robe, mentally cataloguing his supply of elfroot and lyrium, when sudden inspiration struck. Anders paused, tipping his head to look at his old robe. It looked so innocent hanging there. So simple. A grey under-tunic covered by a dingy gold long doublet, straps and brass rings holding the edges closed. A capelet of feathers. Faded green sleeves.

And yet…it had been a long time since he’d squeezed his way into it, _especially_ when he was as full as he was now. It would hug his every dip and curve and flare and roll, and there was no way Hawke would be able to ignore the massive gain Anders had undergone. Every inch of flesh would be highlighted—every jiggle would be accentuated—every embarrassing bulge would be impossible to miss. There was no more obvious a way to shout at the top of his lungs: _I’ve gotten bloody fucking fat; look at me!_

Heat creeping up his cheeks, Anders reached for the old robe and tugged it free. He ran a finger down the two seams that ran up the center of the fabric—leftover from a time the central panel had been a lovely decorative flair instead of just more dingy grey—and mentally shrugged. It would be torture to swan through the city like an overstuffed sausage, but…there was almost a pleasurable edge to that cringing thought. As if the horror of people seeing him like that was counterbalanced by the thought of _Hawke_ seeing him. Of Hawke maybe…wanting him.  Gut and all.

“All right, Isabela,” he muttered, skimming off his tunic and beginning the long, awkward, anxious task of wriggling back into his much-too-tight garb, “let’s see if you’re right for a change. … _Andraste’s tits_.”

Or should he say _his_ tits? Maker. Anders huffed a breath and grabbed the hem of the tunic, squirming and jostling about as he fought to pull it on. It kept wanting to bunch up around his chest, trapped by rounder arms and meatier shoulders and, yes, fine, subtle _tits_. They weren’t even that big (he had to quickly reassure himself), but the silhouette was mighty narrow and, well, he wasn’t exactly that either anymore.

Still, Anders grit his teeth and powered through, belly shaking back and forth with the motion, and gave a triumphant cry when he managed to yank the cloth down. Of course, next came that swollen belly and undeniably chunky arse, but he pulled and he strained and he sucked in just as much as he could until the grey tunic was finally, _finally_ pulled down his legs. Anders looked at himself and gave a winded laugh-groan. His arms truly were like stuffed sausages, barely squeezed inside the dangerously tight sleeves. The tunic clung to _every_ dimple and curve, the two front seams visibly straining. He could see the stitching that held it all together, bleeding white.

Maker. It was _shorter_ than he remembered too, the fabric creeping up over his chunky thighs. If it weren’t for the soft leggings, he'd be baring his ass every time he bent over.

“This is ridiculous,” Anders said, even as he shoved his arms through the doublet. It slipped on easily enough, but the ends were _much_ farther apart than they used to be, hugging the outer curve of his belly. The leather straps strained over him, creaking ominously, but they hooked together around the central metal rings without too much trouble. The only thing was, where they once sat at an even three lines, now one strap was all but pushed under the bottom curve of his stomach while the other two were pushed up to rest on top—perfectly cradling his gut, highlighting it, making it look truly massive by comparison.

Anders made a face and patted the hard dome, feeling the soft give of flesh padding it. _Well_ , he thought, feeling truly big for the first time, _he won’t be able to help but notice this._ In fact, Anders almost dared Hawke to look away. He dared any of them to look away.

Setting his jaw, Anders pulled on the cape of feathers and finished the whole thing up with soft boots. The sinfully tight tunic creaked and groaned as he pulled his hair back in its usual half-ponytail, and he felt like a damn fool as he snagged his staff and made his careful way out of the clinic—belly all but sailing in front of him, heavy and jiggling with each step, so lovingly highlighted, each of the hundred or so pounds he’d slapped onto his frame visible for anyone to see. To mock. (To admire.)

He sucked in a deep breath as he sailed out into Darktown, and _knickerweasles_ but there was no mistaking the way people did a double-take at the sight of him. _The fat Warden_ , he thought, cheeks heating. He tugged at the riding up end of his tunic and very nearly turned back around again like a coward…but Isabela’s voice was echoing in his head.

_And when Hawke looks at you—especially now, the bigger you’re getting—the more he looks parched. He’s always liked a man with some meat on his bones._

Anders wet his lips and forced himself to continue despite the flare of near-erotic shame burning in his gut. _All right, Hawke_ , he thought, feeling round enough to roll right out of Darktown and toward their meeting place, each swaying, jiggling, wobbly inch of him on brazen display, _it’s your move now._


	12. Chapter 12

“You’re looking mighty anxious, Hawke,” Isabela teased. She was perched on a pile of rocks, one bare leg swinging as she idly tossed a knife end over end. The gentle breeze caught strands of black hair, lifting them into coils about her face, and sunlight gleamed off brilliant steel.

_Flip. Flip. Flip._

Hawke did his best to ignore her. He _was_ anxious, though he couldn’t exactly say why. Butterflies had started a riot low in his belly ever since he sent out word to his companions to meet him, but…it didn’t make any _sense_. They hadn’t been hired to do anything particularly dangerous. The brigands were a pest, but they’d be easily dispatched. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous.

But he was. He was nervous. He was anxious. He was pacing back and forth and nearly coming out of his skin.

This was not a good start to the day.

“I wonder what could have gotten you so ruffled,” she continued, grin widening at the glower he shot her. “Could it be a certain apostate you’ve been trying—and failing, bless—to cozy up to? Could it be—”

“Isabela,” Aveline snapped in a warning undertone. “Leave Hawke alone.”

Isabela tossed the blade again, letting it fly end over end before catching it deftly out of the air. Her dark eyes snapped dangerously. “Ooh, are you going to make me, big girl?” she said.

“I could,” Aveline replied, the threat clear in her tone, and Hawke had to turn away with a frustrated sigh, raking his fingers through his hair. He should have known better than to bring these two along: they’d been arguing worse than usual of late, going at each other like warring cats. He’d just figured they’d need Aveline’s strong arm and Isabela’s quick fingers—and besides, Anders was supposed to be here by now, helping him keep the peace.

He scanned the road leading up to the city gates, searching for the familiar figure as Isabela and Aveline continued taking swipes at each other, but Anders was nowhere to be seen. It was nearly a quarter-hour since he’d sent out the messages; was Anders not coming?  Perhaps he was busy in his clinic. Or perhaps he’d gotten sucked into the latest draft of his manifesto. Or maybe he’d cottoned on to just how _interesting_ Hawke had been finding him lately—and he was disgusted by Hawke’s truly perverse interest—and he never wanted to see him again—and he…

He…

Hawke’s searching gaze landed on a figure making its way slowly past the gates and down the road toward their meeting spot. A woman, he thought, unable to catch her features thanks to the brightness of the sun—but there was no mistaking the ripe fullness of her pregnant form. She moved slowly, ponderously, weight shifting back and forth in an exaggerated waddle, belly straining against her surprisingly scant dress.

Maker, it was nearly as short as _Isabela’s_.

He shook his head, already turning back from the brazenly bared pregnant woman when something caught his eye. Three somethings, to be exact.

One: The pregnant woman was carrying a large staff, very much like a mage’s stave, strapped to her back.

Two: The pregnant woman was wearing a cape of feathers, like Anders always preferred.

Three: The pregnant woman was _actually Anders, holy fucking void._

Hawke froze, jaw dropping, _staring_ against the glare of the sun as the heavily pregnant woman morphed into a much more familiar figure. Golden hair pulled back into a half-ponytail, a softly rounded face with a hint of a second chin even when he lifted his head in greeting, rounded shoulders and thicker arms and meaty hips just begging for fingers to dig in deep.

He’d been seeing the changes in Anders over the past months, of course, but never like _this_. The impossibly tight suction of his old robes left nothing to the imagination, familiar grey cloth outlining the thicker chest, the way his body swelled outward toward those heavy hips, the rolls gathering at his sides and the thick chunk of his thighs rubbing together beneath a hugely stuffed belly.

Empty, it would still be a plush handful, Hawke thought, pale fat more than enough to cup and squeeze and set to jiggling. But Anders’ belly was anything but empty now. It was a truly impressive packed dome—big enough and round enough that, yes, it truly did look like an advanced pregnancy—buckles of his doublet lovingly cradling the wide wobble of his gut. The closer Anders waddled (his usually graceful gait off-set by the forward-thrust heaviness of his belly), the more Hawke could see just how _tight_ those old robes were, creaking and straining around his swollen flesh as if ready to go ripping apart at any moment.

It was—

He was—

Anders was just so—

Hawke covered his eyes with one big hand, cheeks so red he could feel the burn. Maker. Even his ears were hot, and he’d never been more grateful for the metal armor protecting (hiding) his distressingly _interested_ groin in his life.

The bickering cut off on a sharp whistle as Hawke fought to remember how to breathe. “Well, well, well,” Isabela crooned, laughing. “Look what the cat rolled in. Someone’s looking _healthy_.”

“Don’t be cruel,” Aveline hissed, but Isabela just snorted at her as she hopped down—deliberately checking Hawke with one of her hips.

Hawke dropped his hand, still flushed so hot he thought he might melt, and watched helplessly as Isabela swayed out to meet Anders. He came to a stop just a few feet away, puffing slightly, his own cheeks pink. Closer, it was impossible to miss the way those seams fought to keep all his bulging flesh contained, and holy fuck, that was just unfairly hot.

“Anders,” Isabela said with a flashing grin. She reached out to rub the wide crest of his belly, utterly shameless as always. “I see the baby is doing well.”

He just laughed, though his cheeks flared darker. “Still no baby in there, ‘Bela,” he said, giving his own belly a little pat. Hawke half expected to hear it jostle. “Just more food than one man needs in a day.”

“Does that mean you don’t plan on eating anything more today?”

“Well,” he demurred, visibly embarrassed, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“No, of course not,” she laughed, grabbing at him and giving him a playful shake that had Hawke’s blood pressure spiking. “You wouldn’t be so delightfully round if you had any kind of self-control, would you?” He wished with everything he had that they could trade places—that _he_ was the kind who dared just reach out and run his hands over all that straining flesh. That he could pinch soft folds and suck marks into pale flesh and tease Anders about just how fat he was getting. How fat Hawke was going to _help_ him get. How big and soft and pliable and…

He nearly aspirated on his own breath when Isabela gave Anders’ belly a playful smack. “Andraste’s knickers, Anders, but you’ve truly embraced your future as a greedy little nug, haven’t you?” she said, manhandling Anders’ body as if unconsciously trying to drive Hawke insane. “How much did you have to stuff your face to get like this, hmm? I’ve never seen a belly this massive before. If you lay down, we could _roll_ you to where we’re going.” She began to circle around him, pawing at his chest and pinching at his sides and reaching around to cup his swollen gut, hefting it so it bounced against chunky thighs and set his whole body to jiggling (making Hawke have to swallow back a guilty groan). “How did you even manage to squeeze yourself into that old robe—and did it ever occur to you, little nug, that your greedy gluttony made yourself just plain too _fat_ to fit in it anymore?”

“ _Isabela,”_ Aveline snapped.

Anders’ cheeks were as bright red as Hawke’s, but he was still half-smiling as he shrugged. “Do you really think I’ve gotten too fat?” he asked her. She had her arms around him, hands cradling his gut, and he dropped his own hands to mimic hers—practically lifting it as an offering to Hawke and Aveline.

Then Anders’ eyes lifted, meeting Hawke’s, and he’d never looked so plush, so welcoming, so swollen round, so _gorgeous_ before as he wet his lower lip and asked, giving that belly of his a deliberate shake: “What do you think, Hawke? Have I let myself get too fat?”

Hawke couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even breathe.

“Of course not,” Aveline said, stepping in to put a stop to what she clearly saw as Isabela’s cruelty. But Hawke knew better. It was the way Isabela gave Anders’ belly a soft pat as she winked at Hawke. It was the color in Anders’ cheeks, the part of his lips, the way his eyes stayed locked with Hawke’s even as Aveline “rescued” him from the oh-so public mortification.

It was in the heady tension zinging between them, and the heat building steadily, and even the subtle arch of a golden brow, as if Anders were saying… _yeah, I know you’re a giant pervert, and I’m willing to meet you halfway. Look at what I’m willing to do just to get your attention._

Maker’s beard, but Anders had worn that skin-tight monstrosity all the way through Kirkwall. He was going into _battle_ in it. He was all but daring Hawke to admire the greedy gluttonous swell of his body—to partake in his erotic-charged shame.

It was like something out of one of Hawke’s filthiest dreams.

He shuddered, taking in all of Anders as Aveline got them moving toward the coast—sensing the question that was being asked and working on how to formulate his reply, even as his attention kept being distracted away by the bounce of Anders’ gut, the ponderous sway of his hips, the overabundant bounty of his new self wrapped so tight in the shell of the man he’d once been as if he were ready to come bursting out of it.

Metaphor? Maybe. It was hard to decipher when mostly Hawke just wanted to rip it off him with his teeth and bury himself in softly giving skin.


	13. Chapter 13

Anders struggled to keep up with the rest of the crew, overfed belly all but sloshing as he waddled (waddled! Graceless as a druffalo—who would have thought he’d someday come to this?) down the shore. Sweat pricked at his brow and down his spine, and his breaths came faster than he cared to admit. Maker, he was huffing and all too aware of Hawke casting occasional glances over his shoulder, taking him in with those dark eyes.

Looking _hungry_.

It had been a long, long time since anyone had looked at him with such naked appreciation before. _And to think_ , Anders thought, wiping away a bead of sweat and trying not to lag too far behind, _all it took was a good hundred pounds of flesh. I starved myself all those years for nothing._

Of course, there was every chance Anders was reading that smolder all wrong. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him as an object of desire; maybe he’d forgotten what it looked like. It could be annoyance that Anders was holding them back. Amusement at his current gravid state. Disgust at the way he’d stuffed himself so fat he could barely squeeze into the robe that had once hung off of him like rags, until every step made the whole thing creak in warning.

It was so hard to tell what Hawke was thinking because _Anders_ was feeling all of those things and more. He felt exposed and titillated and raw and lush and _fat_ and… And too many conflicting emotions to trust any one of them.

So instead he grit his teeth and kept one hand pressed against the outer swell of his stuffed gullet, fighting to keep it from straining too hard as they wandered deeper and deeper into the warren of the Wounded Coast. Mortifyingly, he had to keep reaching down time and time again to tug the back edge his robe down, keeping it from riding up his heart-shaped arse.

_Knickerweasles. It’s a good thing I’m pulling up the rear_ , Anders thought, cheeks hot with flashes of shame as he kept yanking the robe down his chunky thighs. _Otherwise, they’d be pulling up my rear_.

The joke felt bitter, even as it made something strange inside his stomach twist in response.

They went on like that for the hour or so it took to stroll past the crashing waves and into the paths cutting through the cliffside. In fact, he was so busy trying to adjust himself back to decency that he actually missed the first volley of the attack—hands straining back to pull scant cloth over his meaty rear, chest and belly exposed in an exaggerated arc as crossbow bolts went _zipping_ past. One flew so close he could feel it rustling his hair, and Anders had a moment of breathless shock before he was straightening with a cry.

“Hawke!” he said, but Hawke was already swinging around with sword drawn, scanning the rocks. He reached a hand out as if to urge Anders back, even as Isabela cackled and threw down a smoke bomb. A dark cloud coiled around them, hiding their small group from sight as another volley of bolts came winging toward them.

Anders cursed and ducked, grabbing for his staff. He crouched low and hobbled behind a low rock, slowed by his sloshing gut, taking shelter as the shape of the ambush formed around them.

Two bandits were hiding just past a pile of rocks to the north-east while three had taken a cairn toward the west. He could hear scuffling steps somewhere far back behind them, as if even more were moving to flank their party. Anders called up a spell, sending energy flowing through the party, speeding their movements. Isabela was _still_ laughing as she disappeared and reappeared higher up on the rockface, dropping down on the duo. Aveline and Hawke swarmed the cairn with twin roars.

He pointed his staff and set a glyph, gaze bouncing between the three prongs of the attack. If the bandits had been worth their salt, they would have made more of their surprise round…but it was clear these weren’t even a close to a match to Hawke’s crew.

Anders straightened slowly, taking in the ring of steel, the cries, the spatter of blood. It looked like everything was going to be sorted before Isabela’s smoke bomb had even had time to fully dissipate. They were making quick work of the gang, leaving only the…one? two?...bandits who thought they could flank Kirkwall’s best.

“Anders, behind you!” Hawke called, yanking his sword out of a slumped body. He vaulted over the high pile of rocks, sailing down toward the lower path with enviable grace—muscles _rippling_ , Maker. It was entirely unfair.

Flustered, fighting not to stare, Anders turned as Hawke came to join him and lifted his staff. _He_ could easily take care of mopping up the remains without the help, thank you very much. Spotting the two figures hunching low against the shadow of a boulder, creeping around the perimeter of the already dwindling battle, Anders called up a flash of mana and drew in a deep breath. “Suck on a fire—” he began, voice ringing, gleeful.

The rest was lost under a sudden _pop pop pop riiiiip_ , violent and _loud_ and more than enough to have the spell dying at his fingertips. Anders jolted, _feeling_ the threads snap one after the other as the central panel of his robe suddenly and _dramatically_ gave way beneath the pressure of his gut.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion.

The threads broke in a thunderclap. Newly freed panels of cloth snapped out like twin whips, ripped down all three seams at once. No longer so tightly contained, his rounded gut bounced free, flesh shuddering with the violence of the motion. His small tits shuddered, his fleshy sides quaked, and a horrified Anders could practically hear the sound of his fat body exploding out into the cool air.

He was _trembling_ like a bowl full of jelly despite the hard-packed dome of his impressive gut—looking truly massive now, framed by tattered cloth and cradled by the leather bands of his doublet. The leather dug into his fleshy sides, pudge folding over the straining material and, Andraste’s tits, pushing up a little through the metal rings, as if all of him were fighting to escape at once.

He sucked in a breath, belly seeming to expand ever-outward, soaring out naked and fat fat _fat_ , one arm outflung and the other raised as if to call attention to it all.

Next to him, Hawke made a strangled noise, eyes locked on his _still-bouncing belly_ , staring as if he couldn’t look away. A flush swept its way over his bearded cheeks—contact embarrassment—and Anders very nearly died on the spot.

He slowly lowered his staff, one hand jerking over his gut as if he could possibly hope to hide just how round it was, and stared back at Hawke with dazed horror.

“Maker, Anders,” Hawke said. He lowered his blade, dark eyes dropping between Anders’ bared body and his face.

He wanted to curl up and die. “I’m sorry,” Anders said, dimly aware of Isabela rushing past to deal with the two remaining bandits. Aveline called out a warning and tumbled down after her. “I’m so sorry, Hawke.”

“For…for what?” His voice didn’t sound like his own.

Anders let out a puff of breath and curved his hand, grabbing the bottom swell of his belly. He gave it a heft, practically shaking it at Hawke. He’d done this to himself. Or perhaps Justice had done this to them both. Or… Or really, in the end, it didn’t matter. This was who he was now. Not the lithe, flirtatious slip of a boy, not the sleek sexpot, but _this_. “For getting so damn fat.”

The thing was, even as he said the words, he jerked up his chin and let his punishing grip soften, fingers caressing the pudge outlining the stuffed-hard weight of his gut. Deliberately jiggling it. Whether or not what Isabela had said was true, _this_ was true: he was fat. No matter how or why he got to this point, he was here, and if he let himself grapple with that for more than a moment, he didn’t _really_ mind.

If Hawke didn’t find him attractive, well then, he’d live with that, because this was his new reality. Bare-bellied and embarrassed and secretly thrilling at that shiver of shame, charged by the feeling of Hawke staring at him in all his flabby glory.

_I’m fat_ , Anders thought, sinking into the idea. _So much for skin and bones, Justice._

Hawke dropped his sword. “Anders,” he said, stepping close—and between one breath and another, his fingers were tangling in Anders’ hair as his other rough palm cupped a roll of flesh at his side and Hawke was _kissing him_. Hungry and damn near overwhelmed, tongue stroking deep into Anders’ mouth as he pressed him back.

Anders gave a startled cry, letting his own weapon fall. But before he could really give in to the surge of _yes please now_ , Hawke yanked back.

“Wait,” Hawke said, cherry-red. “I, er, I shouldn’t have… Is this okay?” He circled his hand between them, so adorably flustered that Anders nearly laughed. “Can I… I really, really want to be—”

The rambling words were cut off when Anders grabbed _him_ , yanking the warrior down for another searing kiss. He wrapped his arms around Hawke’s neck and held on for dear life, arching up into Hawke’s renewed grip. The feel of his hand on his soft skin was maddening; heat rocked through him, flames licking higher and higher as Hawke sucked greedily on his tongue and massaged the bloat of his belly with increasing self-assurance.

So good, so good—Hawke tasted so fucking _good_ , the sheer power of him overwhelming. Anders melted, falling back against the big boulder as Hawke walked him into it, letting himself be sandwiched between a rock and a, well, hard _something_ all right.

Maker, he felt so indolent and dissipated and wonderful, all plush skin and bared flesh pouring out of the ripped robe that had once defined him. He reached up to scrabble at the ties of his capelet, letting the feathers tumble to the sand as he growled into Hawke’s mouth. By the way Hawke was moaning, there was no doubting the warrior was turned on—and by the way he was pawing at Anders’ sides, his belly, fingertips dragging along the pink lines spanning his proud gut, there was no doubt just how much he _appreciated_ every new inch.

What a wonderful bunch of perverts they were.

“Bloody void,” Hawke rasped when they broke the kiss long enough to suck in a breath. “You are, you are so…”

“Fat,” Anders finished with a laugh. The word didn’t have any power to hurt him; if anything, it made them both shudder together, charged. “And only going to get fatter, thanks to you.”

Hawke pressed their foreheads together. “I was going to say beautiful,” he murmured…and gave Anders’ side a pinch before gathering his wide arsecheeks in his big hands. “But, you know, now that you mention it…”

Anders gusted out a laugh. There were so many things they needed to talk about later, when they were back in Kirkwall, but now—brazenly exposed, arching, hard within the man of his dreams’ arms and happy for what felt like the first time in decades—all Anders could do was smile. “Thanks to you and Justice, I think I’ve managed to be both,” he purred, rubbing his soft, naked belly up against Hawke’s hard armor, as shameless as he had ever been in his youth, excited beyond belief at that idea that this was only the beginning, “don’t you think?”


End file.
